


Can I have this one last dance

by NsuYeula



Series: Heartlines [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-05-12 16:17:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19232656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NsuYeula/pseuds/NsuYeula
Summary: [And she said, "put your arms around meDo you see what I seeTwo nervous people, here taking a chanceSo can I have this one last dance?"]





	1. My words, they go the wrong way around

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of my last fanfiction - Heartlines.  
> You do not need to have read the previous story to understand this one, it is simply following the same AU.
> 
> One Last Dance - Walking on Cars

_[The right side of the wrong town_

_Trying to figure you out_

_My heart beats out of my chest_

_My words, they go the wrong way around]_

 

There are a million and one things most people don’t seem to know about Arya Stark.

She had a stick and poke tattoo of a dagger on her inner thigh that she convinced a drunken Yara to give her last new year’s party.

Her dog Nymeria was secretly trained to break into the pantry and bring up cans of soda and bags of snacks.

She was the one responsible for the unflattering and decidedly _not_ -safe-for-work photos of one Joffrey Baratheon that had leaked once it became public that he’d been cheating on her sister, Sansa.

She’d never told anyone how she got hold of them. Gendry _suspects_ Bran might’ve had a hand in that one, though there’s no way to be sure without asking Arya, and he knows she’d never tell. Even so, as sure as Arya could get into situations she shouldn’t be in, Bran could get information he shouldn’t be able to know. All of the Stark kids were very proficient at doing things they shouldn’t be doing.

One of the many things Gendry didn’t know about Arya before this particular day, was that she could pull off a dress better than anyone. People always raved about how Sansa was the young beauty—and _sure_ , she was pretty, in an obvious sort of way—but Arya was flat-out gorgeous as far as he was concerned. Something in the glitter in her eyes, the crook of her grin when she had a wicked idea.

Sat on the bed, he scratched Nymeria behind the ears as he watched Arya run around the room in a frenzy. Swearing under her breath, she yanked open a drawer and started digging for something, flinging undergarments over her shoulders as she hunted. A pair of panties landed on Nymeria’s muzzle, and she raised her head, huffing as she shook them off. Gendry, who hadn’t been trying to doze, was quick enough to avoid being hit in the face by a flying brassiere, but only just.

“Never thought that underwear could be deadly,” he remarked, picking the bra off his shoulder and throwing it carelessly onto the floor. “And yet here you are, proving the military’s been using the wrong weapons all this time.”

Not looking up from the drawer, Arya flips him the finger and continues rummaging, either too stressed or too busy to think of a witty retort. A few moments later, she let out a triumphant _ah-ha!_ and Gendry, curious as to what she’s been searching for, sees her yank out a bra that appears to be missing its straps.

He blinks at it, then asks—not for the first time, “What exactly are you attending tonight?” Nymeria scowls at him and he resumes scratching her ears.

“Some stupid charity gala thing,” Arya replies as she pulls her t-shirt over her head and tosses it aside.

“I thought Mr Stark…” Gendry begins, then cringes when he sees the look she throws him over her shoulder. He still had not quite gotten over his habit of addressing Arya’s parents formally. He had only recently stopped calling him ‘Lord Stark’.

“I thought your dad lets you stay home from these things,” he amends blankly, drinking in the sight of her bare back. He lets a dopey smile cross is face as he studies the muscles of her back move under the expanse of smooth pale skin.

“Normally, yeah,” she mutters. That had been an agreement between her and her parents several years past; she protested the entire night, hated being there, and frankly her mother hated listening to her whining all night. So, for the past four years, she hadn’t been required to attend any of the formal events. “But Dad was really insistent about the _whole family_ being there tonight—some political thing.”

A knock comes at the door and Gendry is instantly out of this trance. He leaps to his feet, shoving an annoyed Nymeria off his lap.

“Arya?” The voice at the door is unmistakable, and Gendry and Arya grimace at one another. “Are you dressed yet?”

Catelyn Stark was absolutely the _worst_ person who could possibly discover Gendry in Arya’s room. Arya yells back, “Working on it!” as she looks at Gendry and mouths ‘Closet. Now’

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Darting across the room, he all but jumps into the closet and Arya closes the doors behind him. It’s such an obscenely large thing that there’s plenty of room for him to sit on the floor and pull some clothes in front of him. Arya doesn’t own many dresses, though, and none of them are floor length, so little more than his head and shoulders are hidden. If Catelyn decides to open the door, he’s fucked.

He’s barely settled onto the closet when he hears the door to Arya’s room swing open.

“MUM, WHAT THE FUCK I’M _CHANGING!_ ” Arya yells, and there’s scuffling noises as she presumably pulls something on to cover herself.

“Language,” Catelyn says shortly. Arya huffs. Gendry can’t help the small smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth as he imagines the face Arya’s pulling. Disgruntled and definitely annoyed, her nose scrunched up, no doubt.

Since Arya had to spend the entire evening with her mother, he could tell that she was trying to avoid fighting, more than normal anyway. He hears her mutter, “Fine, sorry. Now can you please _leave?_ ”

“I just wanted to check how you were getting on,” Catelyn tells Arya. “Your brothers are all dressed and ready…”

“They’re _boys_ , takes them five minutes.”

“…and Sansa’s ready to go, too,” Catelyn adds, ignoring Arya. In the closet, Gendry winces. Arya and Sansa get along better now than before but comparing Arya to her sister is a sure-fire way to set her off.

“Sansa’s better at this fancy stuff than me,” Arya grits out, and he can _hear_ the effort she’s taking not to slam the door in her mother’s face.

“Arya, you’re not even _dressed_. You still need to do your hair and your make-up…” Catelyn begins.

“I don’t _need_ to do my make-up,” Arya cuts in. “But I’ll be quick, Mum, okay? Quicker if you leave _right now_ ,” she adds sourly.

“You’ll be quicker if I help,” Catelyn says smartly. “Now, have you picked out a dress yet? Let’s see what…” Gendry’s blood runs cold as he hears footsteps that are very obviously coming towards the closet.

“ _No!_ ” Arya squawks. “I-I mean… _yes_ ,” Arya stammers out. “Yes, I…I _have_ picked a dress. This one.”

Catelyn lets out a _hmm_. She most likely appraising the dress Arya showed her, Gendry thought.

“It’s a little unflattering, don’t you think?” she says eventually. “Sansa found a nice blue one that brings out her eyes. Maybe a red one would bring out some of the colour in your…”

“Mum, I like this one,” Arya says flatly. This was the one thing Gendry knew Arya just couldn’t _stand_ about her mother above all else. Always critiquing her, always commenting on whether her clothing was ‘flattering’ or how she ‘wasn’t doing herself any favours by dressing like that’.

“I’m wearing this one,” he hears Arya say firmly. A pause, then there’s the creak of floorboards as Catelyn moves away from the closet, and Gendry only just remembers not to make his sigh of relief audible.

The next several minutes are deeply unsettling as Gendry listens to Arya try not to snap at her mother as Catelyn Stark coaxes her to sit down and have her hair done. Listening to Arya’s tightly controlled replies to Catelyn’s critical comments is almost as unbearable as being trapped in the closet, but somehow Gendry manages.

After a while, it seems the clothes and hair are to Catelyn’s satisfaction, because she asks, “And what sort of make-up were you thinking of wearing?”

“I can do that part myself, Mum,” Arya replies, her patience clearly wearing thin.

“Are you sure, Arya, because…”

“I’m not _so_ incompetent that I don’t know how to apply my own makeup,” Arya grumbles. There’s a pause, then Gendry hears Catelyn let out a sigh of dismay. “Alright, but please be downstairs before the car arrives at half past, I cannot _stand_ us to be late.” It’s easy to imagine Arya sticking her tongue out when her mother’s back turns.

A moment later he hears the door clicking shut, but he stays put in the closet until he hears a gentle tap on the door and knows that the coast is absolutely clear. Struggling to his feet, he pushes the clothing aside and tries not to fall out of the closet as he pushes the door open.

Once he gets his bearings about him, and his eyes fall on Arya, he can’t help but stare.

She stands awkwardly, not used to wearing fancy things, and fiddles with the end of her long braid. All the same, she looks stunning. Her dress is black and strapless, lace layered over a skirt and dotted with rhinestones and black glitter. It’s not quite long enough to cover her knees, and there’s something incredibly girlish about that; a side of her he doesn’t often get to see. She always seemed to be so intent on keeping any form of femininity dead deep inside her most of the time. Around her neck, a black choker with a silver wolf charm, which matched the silver bangle on her wrist, a gift he’d gotten her for her last birthday.

Arya catches him staring and glares at him. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said defensively.

“I…er…right. Sorry,” Gendry stammers, still gaping at her tactlessly.

Another glare, but then her expression softens. “Error 303: Gendry not found,” she quips, leaning forwards and closing his jaw for him with the tip of her finger.

“Guess I need a reboot,” he mumbles, still staring at her. She hasn’t moved back, is still standing only a few inches in front of him. She’s not wearing shoes yet, which means she’s even tinier than normal—not that she goes around wearing heels. Not that she _owns_ heels.

“Maybe you could help me,” he adds, raising a hand to touch her waist. A question, light as a feather. Arya smirks then bats his hand away.

“Nice try.”

He pouts, and as if in commiseration, she pinches his arse and throws him a wink before turning and heading to the bed, where she’s thrown a make-up bag he has never seen before.

Sitting down on the bed, she fiddles with the bag and takes out what Gendry recognises as an eyebrow pencil. Taking out her phone, she opens the camera to selfie mode and begins trying to apply the makeup.

She’s atrocious. Much as he adores her, there’s no other way of putting it. Her first attempt with the pencil, she applies too much pressure, and the sudden darkness of her brow makes her look startled. Wiping it away, she tries again, but her hand slips and she has to start again.

Gendry watches her grow increasingly frustrated as he himself gets increasingly antsy until finally, it becomes unbearable.

“Come here,” he orders. Arya throws him a glower, but he’s already pulling her across the bed to sit in front of him. He grabs the makeup remover and scrubs the remnants of the multiple failed attempts off her.

“Ow!” she pouts as he rubs her skin more roughly than he meant. Mumbling an apology, he picks up the nearly empty make-up bag and pours its meagre contents onto the bed. What tumbles out is a liquid eyeliner, mascara, a few shades of lipstick and small eye shadow palette.

“It’ll have to do,” he mutters. Arya peers at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Since when do you have any knowledge of makeup?”

“My cousin,” he replies. Shireen Baratheon. A nasty illness when she was a kid had scarred the left side of her face pretty badly, and so he’d grown up both having to help her with her make-up and learn increasingly sophisticated techniques for applying it. Whereas Shireen could easily become a professional make-up artist, he would not call himself ‘skilled’ in any way—but he at least knows how to draw eyeliner on straight.  

Arya nestles herself in his lap and pulls her hair back, so the wilder strands stayed out of her eyes. He started with the eyeliner, cupping her face with his left hand as he leans forward. She scrunches her noses and flinches back when she feels the liquid on her eyelid.

“You’re going to have to stay still,” he tells her, “Or it’ll be lopsided.”

She grumbles but closes her eyes and stays still as he gets to work. He draws the eyeliner over the top of her eyelid, carefully adding a small flick at the corner. Shireen had always liked a flick. Setting down the eyeliner, he then applies a small amount of glittery black eyeshadow into the corner of each eye and then gently uses the mascara to bolden her already-dark lashes. There are only three tubes of lipstick, so he picks the lightest, subtlest red and runs it over her lips. He knows Arya’s lips probably better than she does, so this part, at least, comes easily and with little need for concentration.

When he leans back, she slowly lifts cracks open one eye.

“Beautiful,” he says. She slaps his arm, cheeks pink, but this does nothing. Instead, he lets out a laugh and pulls her towards him, planting a kiss on her painted lips. Arya groans, annoyed, but tugs him back to her when he pulls away.

She tastes strange; like lipstick and perfume, but he doesn’t care. They’re still the sweetest things on the planet, and kissing Arya Stark is something he knows he will never find boring or unpleasant.

“As much…as I would…love to keep…doing this…” he says between kisses, one hand cupping her cheek, the other curled around her waist, “…you have to leave in fifteen minutes, and I _really_ don’t want your mum questioning how you look so messy when you’ve supposedly been up here on your own.”

“I’m always messy, she won’t notice,” Arya mutters, leaning forwards to close the space between their mouths and sliding her hands under his shirt. They’re warm on his abdomen and for a moment he really considers her proposal. It’s almost physically painful to pull away from her, and Arya whines as if she, too, is hurt.

“As much as I would _love_ nothing more than to take you, right here and now, with you looking so _stunning_ , m’lady…” The nickname earns him another slap on the arm. “…I think it’s best we preserve your integrity for tonight.”

“Such a gentleman,” Arya remarks, poking him. Grinning, he leans down and kisses the tip of her nose.

“I’ll text you when my shift’s over,” he promises, untangling himself from her and sliding off the bed. She watches him from the bed as he grabs his jacket from underneath the mountain of pillows on her bed—for once, not simple messiness, but a strategic hiding spot. He slips it on and pushes open the window. Straddling the sill, he turns and flashes one more warm smile.

She manages to return it, but weakly. It’s plain to see she doesn’t want him to leave.

“You better,” she mutters, and then he’s off into the night.

He follows the path she’d taught him, so long ago now he doesn’t remember when exactly. The small ledge around the side of the building, and then the sturdy, inviting branches of the old sycamore tree. Climbing down the trunk, he runs for the fence and vaults over it, landing on common ground, once more undiscovered. Throwing one last glance over his shoulder, he sees the light in Arya’s window and sighs.

He’s fucked, he thinks to himself with a smile. He’s fucked, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.


	2. Your words they make me turn around

_[Heard you asked a friend about me_

_Trying to get in my mind_

_And I noticed you were watching me leave_

_Your words they make me turn around]_

 

Why does she ever agree to attend these charity events? Arya looks around the glamorous hall from the corner she had set herself down in. She watches the posh twats in their stiff suits and fancy dresses swan about the hall like geese with a look of barely contained disgust. She had managed to gain blissful freedom from her mother and Sansa after begrudgingly allowing them to introduce her to a handful of the more generous contributors.

Taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, she takes a sip from her glass as she studies the room. Even sitting at this table, tucked away in the corner, half-behind a pillar, she had a good view of the whole room. It was full of people Arya could easily recognize just from a glance. Sansa, in a long gown of deep crimson, edged in gold, her red hair tied back in an elaborate bun with delicate ringlets framing her face, is taking to Loras Tyrell. The blonde beauty and heir to the High Garden fortune was in a very ‘secret’ relationship with Renly Baratheon—currently in conversation with Robb. Probably seeking endorsement from the Starks in the upcoming race for Governor, Arya thinks. Her father, Ned Stark, hold more swing on the committee than most. Well-loved and respected by his constituents and the North District’s representative for the last five terms, his vote and those of his family hold a lot of weight. 

Despite what her family believes, Arya did pay attention to the social and political sphere that the Starks were a part of. Even if for the most part she didn’t care. She thinks social standing was a lot of crap anyway.  She turns her attention to her mother at the other end of the hall, talking to a man Arya didn’t recognize. Clinging to the sleeve of Catelyn’s cardigan is tiny, five-year-old Rickon, who looks more than a little overwhelmed. He is dressed cutely, if not rather silly, in a dress-shirt and bowtie. Feeling rather sympathetic for her youngest brother, she leans forward and snatches a handful of what appears to be salmon appetizers and pops them into her mouth. Leaning back in her chair, she realizes she is as not as invisible as she thought she was. She hears the whisperings of various party guests, who mistakenly believed that they were out of earshot.

_Ned Stark has another daughter. I’d quite forgotten about her._

_Not seen her around recently—wonder why. They take the boy, and he’s only five._

_She doesn’t look much like her sister, does she?_

Away from the watchful eyes of her mother, Arya is in no mood to be polite and courteous. She scowls at them until they notice and bashfully turn away and return to the throng of people. Despite the fact she had made them go away, she began to feel self-conscious, acutely aware of how she doesn’t belong in this environment. Reaching up to her neck, she fiddles with the wolf charm that hung from her choker. Her fingers itched for her phone. She wanted to text Gendry and tell him about how dumb this event was. But alas, her mother had confiscated it back in the car, determined that Arya would engage in the event and act ‘like a proper Stark’.

Frankly, she reckons _she_ has a better idea of what it means to be a Stark. She was wild and stubborn like her father, like Jon and Rob. Her mother was all Tully. She’d almost said as much when Catelyn had taken the phone of her but held her tongue. It wouldn’t do to get in another argument with her mother—Ned would inevitably take Catelyn’s side and the whole family would blow up, just like when, a few days ago, when she’d snuck out to see Gendry and her mother had found an empty room to see Gendry.

Luckily, Ygritte owed her a favor and was never particularly interested in asking questions. Jon probably suspected Ygritte had lied about Arya coming over, but he also wasn’t interested in poking around in other people’s business and had been on Arya’s side during that argument, anyway.

She stares at the ceiling, taking larger sips of drink that she had previously. Only when she heard the squeak of wheels did she break out of her trance. A smile breaks out onto her face as she sees the only other Stark who doesn’t quite belong and these events either. She jumps to her feet and moves forward to meet Bran, who was carefully wheeling himself through the crowd.

Bran laughs in that gentle, sweet, Bran-like way of his and leans up as best he can to accept a hug from his elder sister.

“I was not expecting to see you here,” he remarks.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Arya responds. “Not when our dear mother dictated it.” She pushes Bran to the table she had just previously been sitting at and flags down a waiter, who ducks down with the tray allowing them each to snag another glass of champagne.

“I thought you weren’t going to come?”

“Father convinced me,” he told her, tipping his glass towards her. They clinked together, and both unwitting guests took a long drink. Arya notices their father moving through the crowd towards Catelyn, who gives a radiant smile when she notices him, giggling when he wraps an arm around her and presses a kiss to her temple.

She has to give her parents this - they really do love each other.

“What did he offer that managed to drag the great Brandon Stark away from his research?” she asks, loudly and abruptly, suddenly uncomfortable with the thoughts in her head.

She turns pointedly away from her parents to look at Bran. He’s watching her with that curious expression of his, and she’s sure he’s going to comment on it when he answers, “I do have other activities outside of my research.”

“I don’t think this counts as an ‘activity.”

“No, it’s not. I view this as more of an opportunity to… study people.”

“That doesn’t sound creepy at all,” Arya mutters, sipping her drink. Bran smirks.

“Isn’t that part of my charm?” he jokes.

Arya smiles at that. Bran has always been the odd one in the family, alongside Arya herself. Bran looked like a Tully but had a true heart of a Stark. Even before the accident that had left him crippled and their father with a limp, he would always try and copy what Arya, Jon, and Rob were doing. He’d been an excellent climber—in fact, despite being younger than her, he’d been the one to teach Arya how to scale the Manor walls.

Now, he was paralyzed from the waist downwards. It had taken a long time for him to regain the spark he’d had as a child. He was different now, but still very much Bran, and had channeled that love for climbing into a deep fascination for people. How they moved, how one might replicate that movement of flesh and bone with steel and plastic.

She opens her mouth, about to respond with something witty, but she trails off as she notices one of the late arrivals to the party. She instantly recognizes the lean, raven-haired man who walks into the hall.

“Shit!”

Before Bran even could register what was happening, Arya was up and out of her seat. Throwing the glass onto the table, which landed with a clinking sound, she darted behind Bran’s wheelchair and squatted.

Not exactly the best hiding place.  But Arya mind had gone into overdrive and she had panicked.

Of course, _he’d_ shown up. Of fucking course, he had. She can never seem to escape awkward situations at these social events.

The man, a particularly unpleasant creature by the name of Edric Storm, had been her toy of choice about two summers ago. Catelyn had been trying—fruitlessly—to get Arya involved in the political sphere, and it had involved a lot of _your sister has no problem with this sort of thing_ and _your sister is so well-mannered_ , which of course had made Arya want to scream at her mother _and_ at Sansa.

What she’d _actually_ done had been worse. In lieu of being ladylike and civil and chatting to politicians, she’d been caught—by Stannis Baratheon, no less—with her hand down a certain young man’s pants. Needless to say, Arya had been excused from all future social events after Stannis had decided to drag them both out in front of Catelyn, Ned, and the entire rest of the party. Afterward, she and Edric had hooked up once or twice (maybe thrice) over the rest of the summer, but at some point, he’d gotten the idea she was interested in him romantically, and he’d been hounding her ever since.

About two weeks after she’d stopped talking to him, hoping that would get the message across, he’d shown up at the Manor in the dead of night with a bouquet of roses. Sansa’s political charms had come in handy that night, loathe as Arya was to admit it. Whilst her sister had politely ushered Edric away, Arya had jumped out a window and run for Ygritte’s place. Covered in twigs and fuming, Jon had broken down in tears of laughter at the sight of her.

She hadn’t felt any need to tell Edric that she didn’t want to see him, thinking their lack of interaction outside sex would have made it clear. The guy had been arrogant—always boasting about the wealth he would inherit and making snide little remarks about how she dressed. That she looked more like a boy and how her clothing wasn’t fancy enough for someone of her status. The only way Arya could get him to shut the hell up was to stick her tongue down his throat.

He was a terrible kisser as well. At the time, she had not really had much to compare him to, but now…

She gives her head a sharp shake, chasing away the thoughts of calloused hands running over her skin, hot kisses on her throat, sweet whispers in her ear. She squeezes her legs together and tries not to flush. Tries to think of a way to get away.

Bran tries to hide his amused smile behind his glass of champagne, then tells her, “He’s heading in this direction,” in a vaguely sympathetic tone.

Cursing, she sinks further down to the floor. If she had a few minutes’ heads up, she could have snuck to the bathroom and then through a window or something. He’s so close now that there’s no way he wouldn’t notice if she tried to leave. Movement draws attention, so her best bet is to just stay where she is and hopes Edric is too self-involved to notice her. She moves slightly, glancing around to see if she could spy anything that would work better as cover.

“Bran!”

 _Fuck_.

Edric’s voices booms behind her. She stays still, feeling the wheelchair shift somewhat as Bran leans forward and shakes Edric’s outstretched hand.

“It is a pleasure to see you again Edric,” Bran says politely. Father had trained him well.

“How is the research going?”

“Slow but steady,” Bran responds. “We’re still figuring out the neurobiology of it—so far the links from the spinal cord to the prosthetic are pretty crude. That said, the prototype should be ready for demonstration by the end of the year.”

“Impressive,” Edric remarks. “I might have to buy a few more shares before everyone comes flocking. Have you made anything for yourself?” he then asks, and Arya can see Bran’s smile tighten.

“I’m not an amputee,” Bran answers politely. “And our research is focusing mainly on hands, now, anyway.” He’s trying to steer the conversation back to work; back to a neutral topic, but she knows Edric is too curious and too self-important to let him. “The detail of the muscles in the hand are incredible, which of course is how we have such fine movement, but we haven’t quite gotten the artificial tendons figured out yet—”

“Arya!” Edric cuts over Bran entirely and leans sideways to look at her. She doesn’t turn, but she can just _tell_ he’s got that smug smirk on his face. He chuckled. “You’re not as sneaky as you like to think, you know.”

 _The fuck do you know about me being sneaky? You bought Sansa’s lie that I wasn’t home_. She forces herself not to scowl and assumes a neutral expression.

“I wasn’t being sneaky,” she says, turning to face him, “I caught my bag on Bran’s wheel.”

“She did, I felt it,” Bran adds. Edric raises an eyebrow, and Arya realizes he’s probably noticing she doesn’t _have_ a bag. He says nothing, however, and instead extends a hand to Arya. She bats it away and stands as straight, tall and proud as she can, trying not to make it obvious that she’s pulling at the hem of her dress, wishing desperately it would cover her knees.

“You look beautiful, Arya,” he tells her, and he gives what she supposes is meant to be an endearing smile, but he just looks smug again. His eyes move up and down her, drinking in the sight of her, and she grimaces, disgusted by him. “You never wore numbers like these when we were dating.”

“We weren’t dating,” she tells him coldly. Bran’s clearly biting the inside of his cheek; wondering if she should stay as moral support or leave so they can have some privacy. He decides to stay, Arya supposes, because his hands come off the wheels.

 

Without asking, Edric snatches at her wrist and pulls up her arm to examine the bracelet. He sneers at it.  “I know you’re not one for jewellery, but this is pretty tacky for a lady like you.”

Arya could feel anger flare inside her and wrenches her hand away, only just stopping herself from slapping him.

The bangle had been a gift from Gendry. It was old – something he had found in a second-hand store. When he’d first bought it, the metal had been dull and unassuming, but he’d cleaned and polished it to a dazzling shine, making the intricate leaf design starkly visible. It felt smooth on her skin, and on her wrist, it was like Gendry holding her; a good luck charm offering comfort when forced outside her comfort zone.

And Edric was touching it—touching _her_. Without her permission.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarls. Edric watches her evenly, looking unfazed.

“You didn’t mind me touching you two years ago,” he says lightly. “Quite liked it, in fact. And not just your arm—”

That was the last straw. Arya was already stepping forward, raising her arm back to swing a right hook at that smug, arrogant face, when someone caught her wrist.

“Ah! There you are!”

Too surprised to be angry, Arya whips around to stare at who’s grabbed her, thinking for a moment it might be Bran, until she finds herself staring blankly at Sansa. She turns so quickly that, on the glossy floor of the ballroom, in heeled shoes she’s not accustomed to, she slips and falls, catching the corner between her shoulder blades as she goes down. The loud curse that escapes her mouth attracts the attention of a few bystanders.

“Arya!” Sansa exclaims, hands flying to her face. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—are you alright?” The fussing is not wholly genuine, Arya soon notices, because Sansa places herself very pointedly between her and Edric, offering her a hand up before Edric can, pushing him back when she pulls her sister to her feet.

“That was a nasty fall,” Bran says, looking concerned, but his gaze darts between Arya and Edric, a knowing expression in his eyes. Sansa reads it clear as day.

“I’m going to get her some ice,” she announces, “And maybe some water—how much champagne have you _had?_ ” she asks as she leads Arya away.

No sooner than the pair of them are out of the ballroom and in a semi-secluded hallway that Sansa stops taking Arya’s weight as if Arya had sprained an ankle and stands in front of her little sister, arms folded and gaze steely blue. While she was grateful for Sansa stepping and defusing the situation between her and Edric, Arya decided then that wasn’t too happy about what was inevitably about to happen.

“Spill,” Sansa orders.

“Spill what?” Arya shoots back defensively, crossing her arms and leaning hunched against the wall.

“You know very well what,” Sansa says haughtily, looking down at her. There is a good foot between them, even with Arya in heels. “You were _this_ close to punching Edric in the face. Over a piece of _jewellery_.”

“The guy’s an arrogant bastard,” Arya mutters under her breath.

“Of course he is,” Sansa says exasperatedly. “Almost everyone in that room is. But Arya, over a bracelet? I haven’t seen you that angry since your and Mothers fight about you going to university.”

Arya scowls but says nothing. She didn’t have to explain anything to Sansa, especially not something as sensitive as to why Edric Storms comment had hit her a little more than it used to.

They stand there in tense silence. Neither of them breaking eye contact. They hear the squeaking of wheels and they finally look away from one another as Bran moves down the corridor towards them, expression curious.

“Well, that was quite a spectacle,” he laughs, parking his wheelchair between his sisters. Sansa rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to Arya.

“Even if Edric was being overly arrogant; you know that behaviours is never acceptable. Mother would’ve gone ballistic if she’d had seen that.”

“I know, I know,” Arya responds.

“I think she knows not to make a scene, especially after last summer,” Bran comments. Arya runs her hand through her hair. She did not want to be reminded of the publicly humiliation she experienced last time she had been at one of these parties.

 The silver bracelet glows the light from the chandelier, which catches Sansa’s attention again.

“This isn’t just about the bracelet, is it?”

Arya drops her gaze to the floor but stays silent. Bran looks at her, but does not push.

She closes her eyes, wishing that she could evaporate out of here. Why had she not fought harder not to come? She could have kicked and screamed and forced them to let her stay home. Maybe now she wouldn’t be feeling so small.

“Don’t” She whispers, praying that her sister would drop the subject. However, right now, Sansa was every inch a Stark despite her Tully looks – Stubborn.

“This is about…”

“Don’t” She snaps, cutting across her sister in a tone that isn’t as angry as it might usually be. Maybe she’s still shaken from Edric, she tells herself.

Part of her wants to fall to the floor, hide the emotions that were threatening to flow out. But she holds steady and holds her head up straight.

“Don’t say a fucking word”, she says, her voice steadier this time.

Sansa looks at her, her face softening to one of almost kindness, but Arya doesn’t want her sympathy right now. She just wants to leave.

“The bracelet is from Gendry Waters, isn’t it?”

Arya’s blood runs cold and she slowly turns her head. Bran is looking at her softly. So softly, that it throws her off. For a moment she feels her walls crumble. He always knows. Damn her little brother.

“N…no,” she stutters out.

“Bullshit,” Sansa says firmly. Arya has to give a little, amused smile at that. Sansa, the politically-astute princess, rarely swears so openly.

“Arya, people for years have been saying things about your appearance and not _once_ have you ever cared. So you can understand why I’m a little skeptical when you were rounding up to bunch a guy in the face over a bracelet.”

Arya is beginning to shake at this point. “It’s _just_ a bracelet. I only got mad because Edric fucking Storm decided to show up and come pester me.”

“You’re angry because he began saying nasty comments about your bracelet. Your gift!”

Arya steps forward to push Sansa away, but Bran pushes his wheelchair forwards to hold Arya back. Sansa doesn’t flinch, just continues looking at her. Very even, very unintimidated. Arya lets out a growl of anguish and slides down the wall and onto the floor.

Why? Why did it all have to happen now?

She didn’t want to be in love with Gendry Waters. It was just supposed to be a stupid crush. A crush on the stupid blue-eyed mechanic that came out to help Jon when he and Arya broke the clutch on the tattered old four hatchback Jon had brought dirt cheap at 16.

But it escalated. She began visiting him after her water dance lessons to watch him work on the rusty old convertible he had told Jon and her about – flacked in rust and with the part of the engine missing. A few days of watching and teasing him, he hands her a wrench and invites her to get her hands dirty. Their first kiss had been not long after. It had been sweet, nothing fancy - She had left a handprint of oil on his jaw and he thought it had been hilarious. Ever since then, he had always been by her side.  No matter what had happened.

She feels the floor shift next to her and feels the warmth of Sansa’s arm around her shoulders. Surprising herself a little, she accepts the hug and leans into her sister, letting the floral scent of her perfume fill her nose.

“I was half-convinced you two were just having some sort of extended fling,” Sansa admits. “I didn’t realize how much you cared for him.”

“Of course, I care for him, he’s my friend,” Arya mutters, very obviously dodging the sentiment of Sansa’s remark, and fooling neither her nor Bran.

“A friend who buys you jewellery, jewellery you won’t hear a bad word said about,” Sansa says. “It’s alright to have feelings, Arya, it doesn’t make you weak, or—”

“I know that,” Arya snaps. “But I don’t… I don’t have feelings for him! We’re just friends!”

“Friends, who sneak out at night to see each other?” Bran asks. Arya stares at him. He smiles wryly. “Please. I might not know exactly where you went last week, but I know you weren’t at Ygritte’s.”

She shoots Bran a glare but doesn’t attempt to argue. She’s too exhausted to lie.

It’d been a long time since ‘as a friend’ had accurately described what she felt for Gendry. When she had woken up in the back of the convertible—sunlight in her eyes, the dried warmth between her legs and his arms around her. A knot had appeared in her chest and she could not get it to go away. When he pulled her closer to him, his sleeping face pressed into the tangled mess of her hair, she had known.

“Okay, maybe I like him a little,” she admits. Sansa makes a sort of delighted squeaking noise and tries to hide it behind a cough—unsuccessfully. Arya scowls but doesn’t remove her head from Sansa’s shoulder.

Gods, she thought, were cruel. That was the only explanation for how she felt, how Gendry and her had come to know each other. Fate itself had decreed they would meet. The illegitimate son of the late Robert Baratheon, with bright blue eyes and a tongue almost as sharp as hers. Raised with Stannis after the death of his mother, he refused to have anything to do with the world of politics, the lifestyle of his late father, or said father’s social status, Gendry had left home the moment he’d turned sixteen, and gone to work as a mechanic in the Flea Bottom borough of the Stormland District.

And, somehow, even being originally miles apart, circumstances had brought him Winterfell, the capital of the North District. Somehow, and somehow to Arya.

He had joked one night that it must have been fate that they had met - some delightful gift of the gods. Not even two weeks in Winterfell he had been called out on a job and had stumbled upon this wild, beautiful North girl. She’d been wandering the side of a road, hair slick with rain, clothes caked in mud. At his words, all his talk of fate, she’d called him childish even as she’d blushed scarlet, pushing him over as he rolls away laughing. He soothes her embarrassment later on that night; with warm kisses and soft touches, calloused yet gentle hands on her skin as she panted into his neck, murmuring and begging for more.

The memory of that night sends a pleasant ache to her abdomen. How she’d clung to him almost possessively, cursing at him between moans that she would punch him if he didn’t fuck her right that second. Simply laughing into her lips he’d had taken his time, teasing her until she was sure she would go completely and utterly mad, Her patience well-and-truly spent, she’d shoved him, forcing him onto his back into the grass and straddled him. She remembered his smile, how he’d run his hands gently over her hips as she’d sunk down.

With a deep, calming breath, she lifts her head from Sansa’s shoulder and gets to her feet. She winces then, realises the beginnings of a bruise are forming where she struck the table. Between the pain, the alcohol, and the feelings rushing through her heart at all those memories, she can’t think clearly. Sending a glance to the ballroom, she groans. She _really_ doesn’t want to go back in there. Not with Edric still in there, not with her brain so fuzzy, not with her heart so exposed.

Sansa, somehow getting to her feet more gracefully than Arya, despite wearing a full-length dress and taller heels, dusts down her skirt and says, “I think you’re a little drunk to go back in there.”

Arya opened her mouth to make a comment about how she _can_ hold her drink, about how she had almost drunk Robb and Jon under the table at New Years (they had won only because they were taller, she maintained to this day. If she’d been the same size as them, she’d have won easily) but decides now is not the time to confront one of only two allies she has at this godforsaken party. So, she nods.

“I can speak to mother if you like,” Bran said, but Sansa shook her head.

“I’ll have a word with her,” she told him, easily slipping into the role of eldest-sibling-present as she checks her make-up in the reflection of a painting’s glass frame. “I don’t particularly want to stay much longer myself. I have more important things to be getting on with.”

Finding her reflection to be satisfactory, Sansa then strides back into the ballroom, long skirt rippling around her legs. Arya watches her a moment, then turned to Bran, hoping for some context; some clue as to what these _more important things_ might be. But Bran, despite his knack for knowing more than he should, only shrugs.

They follow behind Sansa, who’s already standing beside Catelyn by the time they enter the ballroom. Rickon’s still clinging to Catelyn’s skirts, and Sansa, strokes his hair as she speaks—gesturing animatedly with her free hand—to their mother. Catelyn cocks her head, then rolls her eyes, and Arya can guess that whatever Sansa’s story is, it probably doesn’t put her in a good light. Then again, she can’t deny that such a story would be hard for her mother to believe.

She snags another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and glowers when Bran shoots her a look. Sticking out her tongue, she takes a swig and decides to ask him about his new assistant – a recent biotechnology graduate who had been contributing a lot to the research.

Arya had barely touched her glass of champagne when Sansa returns, Rickon now holding onto _her_ and rubbing at his eyes with his other hand. She, too, gives Arya a stern look when she sees the champagne, and Arya reluctantly sets it down on a nearby table. Truth be told, she probably shouldn’t have anything more to drink. If Edric shows his smug face again, she can’t promise her lowered inhibitions won’t make her punch him on sight.

Reaching down, she scoops up little Rickon into her arms and blows a raspberry into his cheek, which makes him giggle. She’s immediately relieved she didn’t have anything stronger than champagne when he settles into her arms—between the champagne and the heels, she’s not as steady as she normally is.

“Did you manage to get us out of here?” she asks Sansa.

Sansa nods “Faked period cramps,” she replied, “Then pointed out that it might not be a great idea to leave you unsupervised, since you almost decked Edric.”

Arya groaned. “You have to tell mother about that?” Of course Sansa had told Caitlyn about what had happened She was in for it later.

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t exactly give me much time to think of anything else,” she says, “And besides, it’s much easier to fool people with the truth than with lies.” She glances at Rickon in Arya’s arms. “Want me to take him?”

Arya’s shakes her head.  Even though she’s a lot smaller than her sister she was still strong enough carry him, and perfectly capable of walking.

“I shall bid you two good night then and will see you back at the house,” Bran tells them as Sansa

“I think stay and continue studying.” Sansa looks confused but Arya rolls her eyes in response to Bran’s rather terrible joke and frees her hand to wave Bran farewell as she follows Sansa through the crowd.

“Here,” Arya hears Sansa say when they enter the hallway. Arya looks up momentarily confused until she sees that in Sansa’s outstretched hand was her black shoulder bag.

“How did you get this?” she asks as she sets Rickon down so she can take her bag.

 Sansa gives a shrug.  “Told Mother that since you were leaving it doesn’t really make a difference if you’re on your phone the whole night,” she replied. “Any messages?” Her tone is deceptively casual, but Arya knows that even if she hadn’t just spent twenty minutes watching Arya working through the emotional journey of realizing she was in love with Gendry, Sansa would be asking if anyone, more specifically _Gendry­­_ , had messaged her.

The screen of her phone lights up, and she sees four news messages.

_Bull:       hope the party doesnt suck too much_

_Bull:       looks like tonights shift is gonna b a busy one_

_Bull:       lommy + hotpie say hi_

_Bull:       Bull has sent a photo [unlock to view]_

She unlocks her phone and what comes onto the screen is a photo of Gendry’s face, split into a blazing grin. Even though the lighting is terrible, it was always was in that grotty bar he worked in, she can clearly make out the blue of his eyes. Flanking him on each side are Lommy and Hotpie, making stupid faces.

Arya smiles to herself, eyes raking along the curve of his jawline, the bead of sweat at his hairline, how his white shirt is just thin enough and just tight enough to show a hint of the muscle’s underneath.

Rickon watches her as Sansa speaks to the cloakroom attendant. Sansa pulled on a thick black cloak that makes her look like a medieval lady, then tucks Rickon into a bright white, puffy thing that makes _him_ look like a snowball. Arya just slings hers over her shoulder. “Is that your boyfriend?” he asks sleepily. Too tired, Sansa zips his coat for him and picks him up again.

Arya smiles at him, ruffling his curls. “Kinda.” She catches Sansa looking at her with an amused expression, and flushes.

“The chauffeur’s outside,” is all Sansa says, “You ready?”

Arya nods, then as they’re walking outside, says, “Uh… about earlier. I’m sorry. I know I messed up in there—I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow, looking so infuriatingly like their mother when she does, but her eyes are warm and laughing in a way Catelyn’s almost never are when dealing with Arya. “Apology accepted,” she says. “Just try and hold your temper a little better next time.”

“Deal.”

Stepping outside into the crisp autumn air is a shock after the warmth of the party. As the door closes behind them and the sound of the party is cut off completely, Arya relaxes. She lets her shoulders drop and takes a long, deep breath. She turns her head upwards, staring at the stars above her. Now that she was outside she could finally begin to think clearer.

The car pulls up in front of them and a semi-balding man sets out to open the doors for them. Arya climbs in, takes Rickon from Sansa and straps him into the car seat, then Sansa slides in gracefully on his other side. The chauffeur closes the door and a moment later the car pulls away, gravel crunching under the tires. Arya stares out the window, fingers stroking the smooth metal edge as the lights of the ballroom disappear around a corner like so many stars behind a cloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend for this to be almost three weeks late! This chapter was completely different from anything I have ever written before. It was sent back and forth between me and my best friend & Beta reader AJ_Lenoire maybe four/five times before it was finished and good enough to be posted.   
> This chapter was a lot of world building for the AU and it was difficult to write as I was trying hard not to write Arya out of character and weak.  
> The other chapters and planned so this story will be completed, just not as quickly as I originally predicted


	3. Two nervous people, here taking a chance

[And she said, I still barely know you

Not asking what I will do

Two nervous people, here taking a chance

So can I have this one last dance?]

* * *

 

“You’re late,” the Clegane says, not looking up from the bottles he was organising behind the counter.

“I am not!” Gendry pants, dropping his rucksack on the floor and leaning one arm on the bar as he catches his breath. “Still have..” he glances over to the clock on the far wall. “… thirty seconds.”

And right on cue, Gendry’s pocket began beeping obnoxiously. He pulls out his phone to see a reminder on the screen. WORK @ THE HOUND. He shows his boss his phone. Clegane grunts, not really caring enough to contest his best bartender being almost late (even if it was far from his first time) and hands him a tea towel so Gendry could wipe the sweat from his face and neck before turning his attention back to the bottles he was unpacking. Even if Clegane did contest Gendry’s constant – almost – lateness, the damn boy would probably rattle off something about capitalism wanting more of his time then it was willing to pay for.

Pulling off his jacket to reveal the white t-shirt that consisted of the uniform here, (though it was a specially designed white t-shirt, with  _The Hound_  written in white lettering underneath a stylised god on the breast) Gendry runs a sweaty hand through his hair and glances around the small, dimly lit room. It was still relatively clean from when Clegane closed up the night before; though the tables could use a wipe down.

Grabbing his rucksack, he opens the door to the small backroom and throws it onto the old recliner that was nestled between all the barrels and boxes that were stacked inside. Checking himself in the front camera of his phone, he attempts to wipe down his t-shirt, which had managed to obtain a rather large amount of dog hair from Nymeria. Tilting his head back slightly, he eyes the bruise forming on his collarbone. He hadn’t noticed it in the rush to get getting ready. Even though he smiles, remembering the impromptu make-out session with Arya earlier that day, he wished he’d had the foresight to ask her to kiss below his collar, or to ask to borrow some concealer at least.

More pressing concern, however, was the fact he hadn’t had time to shower before his shift. And though he didn’t smell bad, he was definitely not as presentable as he could be. Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he decides he better start wiping down those tables and heads back into the main room of the bar.

“You were with your girlfriend?” Clegane grunts. He grunts pretty much everything he says – partly because of his temperament, partly because of the nasty scaring down one side of his face that made it difficult to move his jaw on that side. It definitely contributed to his menacing appearance.

There was a reason that there were never barfights in  _The Hound._

“Arya’s not my girlfriend,” Gendry corrects him as he heads towards one of the tables and begins wiping it down. It was sticky and smelt sweet, so was probably cider rather than beer.

“You fuck her don’t you?”

Gendry bites his tongue, annoyed. “Doesn’t make her my girlfriend.”  
He doesn’t even have to look to know that Clegane is raising his one working eyebrow and muttering something about kids these days, and tunes him out. He finishes wiping down the tables with time to spare, so absentmindedly straightens the tables and chairs before heading back behind the bar.

He attempts to locate the AUX cord for the speakers which, as always, was a chair. Gendry is 75% sure that Clegane purposefully attempts to hide the cord as if to dissuade Gendry from playing music. However, it was his own fault that the jukebox the bar had used until just a few months ago was no longer working. On quieter nights, Clegane has a few beers of his own. And, with the egging on from Gendry and a few regulars, Clegane had challenged a regular, a security guard Brienne Tarth, to an arm-wrestling match. When Brienne had forced his arm down, winning the match, the impact had sent a half-full bottle of beer flying. It had landed on the jukebox, shattering and sending shards of glass and drops of beer into every crevice – rendering the machine unrepairable.

He gropes around behind the back on the shelving unit his fingers grasps around some kind of cable. Yanking it out, he plugs the AUX cord into his phone and opens up one of the playlists that he and Arya had crafted specifically for the bar. Normally places like clubs and bars needed a licence to play music. But, as Gendry had argued, the bar was shady enough looking that something illegal had to be going on here. Though, instead of drug deals or gang activities, it was pirated copies of Taylor Swift’s new album.

Picking a song at random, he sets his phone back on the shelf as Led Zeppelin begins playing. The regulars begin trickling in right on cue, and soon the bar was full of the buzz of conversation. After the initial opening rush dies down, he gets a chance to check his phone. He tries not to look disappointed when the screen lights up empty, only the lock screen image of Arya throwing the middle finger staring back at him. Thinking for a moment, he unlocks his phone and quickly types out a short message.

_hope the party doesnt suck to much_

As he’s placing his phone back down, the door opens, and familiar-sounding voices join those of the regulars. Looking up, he catches sight of a small group consisting of three boys and a woman. Though all three boys are in their early twenties (so technically men), the woman towered over all three of them by at least afoot.

“Gendry!” Lommy calls out, and Hotpie and Podrick wave at him, grinning. Gendry steps out from behind the bar and allows himself to be pulled into a group hug. When they finally release him, Brienne steps forward with a smile and extended hand.

“What brings you guys here?” Gendry asks as he shakes Brienne’s hand.  
Lommy cackles. “Pod here…” He claps Podrick on the shoulder. “finally got himself a  _girl_.” Podrick blushes scarlet and stares down at the ground.

“I went on a date,” he said in that quiet way of his. “We… we’re not actually together.”  
Lommy opens his mouth to say something but shuts it again when Brienne shoots him a curt look.

“I owe Pod a few drinks, Brienne explains, looking back at Gendry, “And these two wanted to come out, so we’re making a thing of it.”

“That would explain why you’re here on your nights off,” Gendry says, directing that at not just Brienne but Podrick too. He was something of a ‘junior security guard’, though Gendry wasn’t sure why. He’d never seen Podrick fight, and though he didn’t doubt Brienne’s judgement.

Just then, there was an  _ahem_  behind them, and they turn to see Clegane glowering down at Gendry, He would have had his arm folded if he wasn’t occupied with getting a beer for a customer at that precise moment.  
“Get back to work,” Clegane huffs, nodding towards a waiting customer.

  
Gendry nods and darts behind the bar as Lommy, Hotpie and Prodrick all take a seat at a table. As Brienne walks past Clegane he says, “Didn’t expect you to be here tonight.”

“Neither did I,” Brienne replies, her tone and gaze sour.   
 _They got along shockingly poorly despite how similar they both were_ , Gendry thinks. The sound of the door opening then pulls his attention to the group of about eight rowdy looking frat boys who had just entered, and with an internal sigh, he quickly grabs his phone from the shelf behind him and sends another text to Arya.

_tonight's looking to b a busy 1_

 -

Over the course of the night, the bar settles into the rhythm for the evening. Frat boys aside, it’s not to busy and not too hectic; enough work to keep Gendry occupied, but not so much that he feels stressed.

Gendry realised it was really beginning to die down when Brienne and the boys move to the bar, and Clegane pours and extra two beers – one for himself and one for Gendry. They chat in between Customer’s orders, which are only every ten minutes or so now.

“Why’d you look so surprised to see Brienne here tonight?” Hotpie asked Clegane. It was a fair question. Tonight wouldn’t have been the first time Brienne had spent her nights off here

Clegane shrugs. “Figured she’d be off with her new Lannister.”  
Lommy, Hotpie and Gendry’s heads all swivel in perfect unison to gape, stunned, at Brienne. She slowly turns to glare at Podrick, who suddenly becomes very interested in the bottom of his beer glass. But unfortunately for Brienne, her pale skin betrays her by showing the slightest hint of red in her cheeks – and it wasn’t because of the booze.

“You fucked a Lannister?” Hotpie squawks. The Lannisters, another political family in the same vein as the Starks; even richer and more obnoxious. They are not the kind of people Gendry imagined Brienne hanging out with, even if she had been the bodyguard for one of them a few years back when he had lost a hand in a politically charged attack.

“Holy shit, you did!” Lommy crows, caught between shock and hysterics. Brienne glowers and takes another deep swig of drink to hide her embarrassment. He turns to Gendry, delighted, then gives a wordless yell.  
“Oh! And she’s not the only one!” he cackles as he leans across the bar and yanks down the front of Gendry’s t-shirt to fully expose the hickey on his neck. Up till then, the alcohol they’d drunk and the shitty lighting had hidden it from Gendry normally unobservant friends.

“Get off,” Gendry says, batting Lommy’s hand away as Hotpie frowns into his drink.   
“Why is everything getting action except me,” he mutters. Lommy snorts.

“Because you have no self-respect,” he said briskly. “Look at Pod, he’s got no confidence or really  _any_  good traits to speak of- “  
“Hey!”  
“-but he has  _self-respect._  I could pour soup in your lap and you’d probably apologise to  _me_. Grown a spine, for God’s sake.”

Though a little harshly worded, Gendry had to admit that Lommy was probably at least a little bit right. Hotpie had always had confidence issues. But then, they’d all be calling him Hotpie for as long that he didn’t always remember what his real name was.

“Or,” Podrick says, shrugging. “Find a girl who likes tearing men apart. I hear spines make that a little difficult.”  
Lommy, taking a drink at the time, almost chokes. Gendry  _does_  choke. As he coughs, Lommy says, “Can you _imagine_  Hotpie ending up in bed with some… cougar?”

“I find it easier to believe than a Waters snagging a Stark,” Podrick says lightly.   
Gendry shoots him a look.  
“Oh, come on, you know what I mean. They’re not the Lannister’s, but they’re still miles above us. Y’know,  _socially_.”

“They’re really not that bad,” Gendry tells them, “I think the only one who really has a problem is their Mum, and she’s technically a Tully so.”

“No way,” Lommy exclaims, “You little hellcat-“ he points at Gendry’s hickey again and grins, “-sure. But no way does the likes of Sansa Stark not have a problem with you.”

“Don’t be so quick to dismiss her,” Clegane rumbles, his first words since the conversation had begun. “She’s got a sharper tongue than all of her brothers put together.”

“Not hard, is it though?” Lommy scoffs. “The younger ones don’t talk and the older ones are to head-in-the-clouds with their girlfriends.”

“ _Speaking_ of tongues,” Gendry then says loudly, eager to shift the conversation away from himself. He fixes his gaze onto Brienne. “I’m willing to be it was Jamie. The one you bodyguarded.”

“Oh yeah, he would have to be good with his tongue,” Lommy agreed, nodding to Gendry. “Since he lost his right hand – or is he a leftie?”

Brienne didn’t answer, which only prompts the boys to keep repeating the question over and over, getting louder and louder until, with a high sigh, Brienne downs the rest of her drink and announced, “He’s not a leftie.”

This brought a huge round of “OOOOOOH!” worthy of the frat boys who had been in earlier, and they all started laughing. After a moment, even Brienne joins in, shaking her head and trying to fight off the smile on her face.   
The raucous lather is then cut short by a loud THUD! And Brienne and the boys all turn around to look at the door. Gendry peers between Hotpie and Lommy’s heads to see Arya standing in the doorway, heels in one hand and a flushed expression on her face. She looks at the bar, tilting her head to the side until she sees Gendry face, then grins.

“Hey.”

She ignores everything as she walks towards Gendry. He glances at Clegane, who nods shortly. Gendry comes out from behind the bar; officially off duty for the night. Arya crashes into his arms, the gesture oddly forceful and passionate considering how calmly she had walked in and how un-unhappy her expression had been.

“Hey, he says back, running his hand over her shoulder-blades which were exposed by her dress. They’re ice-cold. Had she walked on the way here from the party?  
Arya looks up at him with an expression on her face which causes his heart to skip a beat. Taking advantage of his momentary dazedness, Arya leans up and kisses him. There’s a sound of whopping from behind and they both turn to see Lommy and Hotpie, both giving them the thumbs up of approval. Arya attempts to flip them the finger but stumbles for some reason, grabbing Gendry’s arm to steady herself.

He looks at her confused for a moment. Her heels were in her hand, not on her feet. So she shouldn’t have stumbled. He realises why just as the Clegane says it aloud.  
“She’s drunk.”

He shoots glares at the remaining patrons as, he too, walks out from behind the bar. The patrons who had been staring turn back to their drinks silently. Despite his rough exterior, Gendry knew that Clegane was actually quite fond of the two Stark daughters.

“I’m not drunk,” Arya says defensively, but her voice is a bit slurred.

“How much have you had to drink?” Gendry asks her.  
Arya shrugs. “Just a couple of glasses of champagne.”

“You’re drunk,” Clegane repeats firmly. Arya opens her mouth to continue arguing but the Hound ignores her and turns to Gendry. “Take her outback, she’s in no state to get herself home.”

“I’m not drunk!” Arya insists, louder this time. Clegane throws her a glare, half  _don’t make a scene_  and half  _don’t lie to me_.

“I’ll make sure she gets home,” Gendry promises. Clegane grunts and heads back behind the bar. Gendry goes wrap his arm around Arya, who was continuing to glare at the back of Clegane’s head. Brienne and Podrick watch Arya with mild concern as Gendry tries to guide Arya to the back-room door. Lommy and Hotpie on the other hand wave at Arya excitedly. Arya begins to slouch into Gendry’s arms and he shoots Lommy and Hotpie an apologetic look and quickly promises they can catch up with Arya properly some other time.

“I’m fine,” Arya complains as he closes the door to the backroom behind them.  
“I know,” he admits. “But you are drunk, and when you start sobering up, you get very sleepy.” She opens her mouth to correct him but he lifts her up into a bear hug. “And I want you to stay safe.”

“At least finish your shift,” she says.   
He frowns. “Arya…”  
“I’m fine,” she says tersely, “Fine enough to wait another two hours. I’ll just sit on my phone in her. Now go finish your shift.”

He looks at unsure, which makes her scowl.  
“I don’t need you to protect me.”

“I know,” he says. “But for tonight, could you humour me?”  
Arya scowl deepens.   
“Just this once?” He asks again.

She huffs. “Fine,” and allows him to press a chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth. He places her down into the old recliner, removing his backpack from behind her and stuffing her shoes into it. So they didn’t forget them later. He then grabs his jacket and throws it over her. He’s so much taller and broader than her that it easily covers her when she’s curled up on the seat.

“Try and behave yourself, okay?” He tells her and ruffles her hair. She sticks her tongue out at him, but she is smiling. She snuggles her face into his jacket, filling her nose with the smell of old leather and Gendry.

Heading back out to the bar, Clegane is stunned to see him.   
“I told you to get her home,” he tells Gendry sternly.

“She insisted I finished my shift. She’s napping in the backroom. Besides, her whole family is at that gala thing, there’s no one to take care of her at home.”

“And you’re not…  _accepted_ in that house, are you?” Brienne says lightly over the top of her drink.   
He shrugs, “We not exactly together. So the only person who really knows I exist is Sansa and Jon. And neither are that observant.”

Brienne nods simply and takes another swig of her drink.

The bar slowly begins to empty as the night trickles on. Sometime after midnight, Brienne and Podrick finish their final drinks and bid both Gendry and Clegane farewell, taking a rather drunk Lommy and Hotpie with them. After they had left, only a few stragglers were still drinking. Soon though Clegane was rapping on their tables and telling them that they were closing up.

Not soon after the sign had been turned to closed, Arya emerged from the back room, looking rather drowsy, but definitely more sober.  

“Hey,” he smiles as she stumbles towards him and leans her against his shoulder (well, his bicep. She’s too short to reach his shoulder). “Sleep okay?”

She gives a wordless groan, but it was the happy kind. He wraps his arm around her shoulder and plants a kiss against her head.

“You close up here,” says Clegane sharply, interrupting the moment. He tosses Gendry a set of keys. “I have to sort out some barrels in the basement, so I’ll head out the back door.”   
His gaze turns to Arya. “You’ll be alright, girl?”

“I’ll be fine,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. Clegane nods stiffly.

“Y’know, I think he just doesn’t want to be around us because we’re being sappy,” Gendry teases her, knowing how much she hates that stuff. Sure enough, her nose wrinkles.   
“We are not sappy,” she complains, leaning against the counter.

“Well…” Gendry says, smirking. Arya aims a kick at him but he sidesteps out of the way. With one last look of utter exasperation, Clegane opens the trapdoor down to the basement and lets it slam shut behind him.

With most of the alcohol cleared from her head, Arya looks at Gendry with more coherent thoughts as he goes back to washing up the last few remaining glasses. She likes watching him in these moments, where she can see what his life is. Because so often, he’s sneaking into hers, not the other way around. It felt private, exiting and almost naughty, even though her visiting him at work was far from the most scandalous thing they did.

Gendry watches her from the corner of his eye while he works. She sits on one of the barstools, swinging her legs backwards and forwards as she studies the bottles of liquor absentmindedly.

He wants to talk to her; ask why she got drunk at that party; why she came here; why Sansa  _let_  her come here. He couldn’t believe for a moment that Sansa would have done that without a good fucking reason. But he doesn’t.  He never pushes Arya, and that’s probably why she likes him so much. He doesn’t force her to talk, to explain herself, unlike literally everyone else in her life.

So, when she’s quiet, he lets her be quiet.

He continues to watch her as he collects up the empty glasses and bottles littered around the room. Pondering. He continues to ponder as he carries the now full washing up bowl back to the bar. He lifts it on the counter, studying her closely.

“Come here,” he finally says, turning and back out from behind the bar. She looks at him, confused. He moves around the room, turning off all of the main lights and pushes the tables and chairs against the walls until there is a clear space in the middle of the floor. She watches him do this intensely with her grey eyes. Finally, when he is satisfied with his handiwork, he turns to her and holds out his hand.

She tilts her head to the side, still looking confused.   
“Come here,” he says again, more softly this time.

Tentatively, she slides off her stool, landing a bit awkwardly as she was still somewhat drunk. She grabs at his hand to balance herself. A smile forms on Gendry’s face and he carefully leads her into the middle of the floor. He unlocks his phone and thumbs through his music until he found the song he was looking for. He clicks on it and places his phone down onto a table as the song starts playing.

Arya raises an eyebrow, recognising the song instantly. “Seriously?”  
He just laughs, pulling her to him and wrapping his arms around her waist. After a very over-exaggerated eye roll, he arms snake around his neck. The height difference made the whole thing a little awkward. Arya could only get her arm around him by standing on her tiptoes, which forced Gendry to slouch and lean himself forward. Their eyes meet and they both can’t help but burst out laughing.

“Can you see why I utterly despise this?” She laughs, linking her fingers together behind his neck.  
“Thought it was just because you hated the places you had to dance at.” He responds, burying his nose into her hair.  
“That too.”

He feels teeth nip at his neck and he yelps with surprise. “Little She-wolf,” he growls as he tightens his grip and pulls her up into the air. Arya yelps and clings to Gendry as he spins her around. When he finally places her back down onto the ground, they relax into one another and sway together to the music. He could feel her humming along with the song against his chest.

  _And she said "Put your arms around me_

_Do you see what I see_

_Two nervous people here taking a chance_

_So can I have this one last dance?"_

As the song comes to an end, Gendry leans down and presses a kiss to Arya’s temple. “Now, I actually do need to finish cleaning up or I’m not going to get home tonight.”  
Arya grumbles and adjusts herself, so she was standing on his feet as he tries to move away.

He raises an eyebrow as he looks down at her. “You know that doesn’t work.”  
Wrapping his arms back around her, he begins moving backwards with her still on his feet.

“Curse you and your Bull strength,” she complains.   
Laughing softly, he lifts her up onto the counter and presses another kiss on her face. “Stay there, M’lady.” At the sound of that stupid nickname, she sticks her tongue out him. But she does as he asks and sits there watching him unload the empty glass bottles into recycling and cleaning down the glasses and tables.

It doesn’t take long, and soon Gendry is locking the front door to the bar and shoving the keys into a hidden nook in the brickwork behind a rather large potted plant so Clegane could find the keys the next morning. A small grumbling sound makes him look up though. There aren’t wild dogs here, nor foxes – not this close into the city. Did racoons growl? He wasn’t sure.

Arya looks at him, baffled. “I haven’t eaten yet,” she says, realising his confusion and knowing he had immediately jumped to some kind of terrible conclusion that probably involved them being eaten alive by raccoons.

Gendry blinks for a second before he smiles at her. “Then we can get some pizza before I drop you off home,” he says as he turns to head towards the direction of the nearest takeaway place.

“I’m not going home.”

Gendry stopped dead in his tracks. He turns slowly to look at her, trying to think of something to say. His brain, however, had completely short-circuited, and his mouth was growing dryer by the second.

Arya always went home. That was the unspoken agreement. Between the stolen kisses and heated moments, they never stayed together afterwards. Well, they had last week – but that had been an accident. Neither of them had meant to have fallen asleep in the back of the convertible. They never stayed together, that was the rule.

Everything between them was always rushed; in the moment. In his car, or at the garage or when he snuck into her room when her parents were out. While none of it was very romantic (and Gendry was secretly a romantic at heart), he simply couldn’t help himself. Arya was addictive. Ever since their first meeting on the side of the road she had fascinated him every way imaginable. And after their first kiss, he knew that he was fucked.

He lived for their moments together, and always was secretly counting down to the moment he gets to be with her again.  
He knows that if he could, he would submit everything to her – absolutely everything. But that isn’t what Arya wanted. Arya is, well,  _Arya_. She didn’t really need anyone. She doesn’t really want anyone either. She just doesn’t want him less than she doesn’t want everyone else. So, instead, he lives for each small moment he gets. Each kiss, touch, laugh or cold state. Anything. Because anyone of them could be the last.

So right now, standing there in the cold northern air, and her in that god damn black dress, tangled hair and flushed cheeks – everything seemed to be pouring to the surface. He doesn’t dare look away, he doesn’t dare speak, he doesn’t dare  _breathe_.

Arya looks down at the ground, shuffling her feet nervously. “I mean, I can’t exactly get home cos you know,” she gestures to her bare feet. “It’s a few miles walk.” Even in the heels, that was unreasonable.

“Y..yeah,” Gendry says, swallowing. She walks up next to him and takes his hand in hers, their fingers entwining together. She doesn’t look at him, but she lightly squeezes his hand; he decides that right now he should just enjoy the moment. He squeezes her hand back and closes the gap between them as they walk through the unlit streets, the moon lighting the way as if the road lead places where everything would work out like a fairy-tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its finally done... AFTER TWO AND A HALF MONTHS! I'm so sorry for the lateness. So much shit been going on IRL that I've been very sick and exhausted the past month or two. Thankfully I am slowly finding my writing rhythm and I have a number of projects that I hope to have published before the end of the year - including the final chapter to One Last Dance.   
> I do love this AU.   
> Thank you as always to my beautiful and talented bestie @AJ-Lenoire for beta reading this chapter and helping me finish up some dialog I was struggling with.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, the first chapter posted. This is the first multi-chapter story I've written so I am rather nervous. The story has been drafted and just needs being fleshed out and beta-read. 
> 
> Big thanks to AJ_Lenoire, co-writer of the original story (Heartlines) for beta reading this fanfic for me and just providing me with love and support.


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